


A Queer Sort of Community

by lalaland666 (orphan_account)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (if that’s not a tag it SHOULD BE), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Historically-accurate homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Queer Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Queer Guardian Demon Crowley, Queer History, Queer Themes, References to Sex, The Hundred Guineas Club, but nothing explicit, implied sex, mentions of aids, the Bentley is sentient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21766660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lalaland666
Summary: An angel and a demon find strange solace amongst the humans pushed to the fringes of society, in places tinged with tragedy– until, eventually, they start to find solace in each other.A short exploration of how Aziraphale and Crowley might relate to the queer community, historically and in modern times.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens) & Oscar Wilde, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 40
Kudos: 337
Collections: The Queerest Place in Soho, Wickedly Good Omens Fics





	1. March 1888

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive my probable factual inaccuracies here; I did my best. 
> 
> Also, this is my usual un-beta’d mess, so… sorry, y’all
> 
> Edit: I changed the title from "An Odd Sort of Community", because I realised that I was missing a very obvious pun and I needed to make it. No regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in like 20 minutes at 2 am, so my Googling of history might be slightly off. Apologies in advance

Aziraphale had been left rather alone for thirty years now, while Crowley slept, and he’d grown dishearteningly accustomed to it. He’d found solace in a somewhat unexpected place– a discreet gentlemen’s club in Portland Place called the Hundred Guineas, which was a lovely location to meet people and dance– oh, how Aziraphale _loved_ to dance– so long as you left before the lights went out. And Aziraphale always did. 

One night, he was sat in the club, nursing a claret in between rounds of dancing. It was late– about quarter to two. Aziraphale really ought to be leaving, if he was honest with himself, but there was meant to be one more dance tonight, and the conversations he was flitting between in the meantime were far more fascinating than they had any right to be.

“Mister Fell, is it not?” a man asked from Aziraphale’s shoulder, and Aziraphale turned to see a rather dashing young man with dark hair and a darker suit, bowing and grinning cheekily you at him. 

“The very same,” said Aziraphale, smiling back as the man straightened up. 

”You’re quite the dancer, Mister Fell,” said th e young man, still smiling. It was rather disarming. 

”Why, thank you,” said Aziraphale, wriggling happily at the praise. “You flatter me, Mister…?” 

“Oscar Wilde, sir,” said the young man. 

“Mister Wilde?” Aziraphale asked, intrigued. He’d heard of the man, of course. He’d garnered rather a reputation amongst the soldiers and telegraph boys, as well as within the club itself, of course. It wasn’t necessarily the most flattering reputation, but it was accompanied by some rather breathtaking writing. “The same Wilde who’s written such lovely poems?” 

“Indeed,” said Oscar Wilde, grinning. “I see my reputation precedes me. I’m still not certain if that’s something I want.” 

Aziraphale laughed at that. 

“You have a most fascinating laugh, Mister Fell,” said Wilde, taking a half a step closer, and Aziraphale felt his pulse quicken. He really was quite handsome. 

“I’m not quite certain how to receive that remark, Mister Wilde,” Aziraphale responded, very carefully not stepping away. 

Wilde grinned. “It was intended as the most sincere of compliments, though again I think my reputation gets in my way there.” 

“Well, thank you, then,” said Aziraphale, smiling. 

Wilde glanced over at the grandfather clock a short distance away, then said quietly, “If you’d like, I have some drafts of my newer works stored away in a room upstairs.” 

“Oh!” said Aziraphale, his face flushing. “My goodness. Um. Mister Wilde, I– you know I– I’m flattered, really, but–“ 

“I’m sorry,” said Wilde, taking a step back immediately. “I’m very sorry, Mister Fell, I meant no offense, I was rather too forward–“ 

“Oh, no, it’s not you at all, dear boy,” said Aziraphale quickly. “It’s just… I just… I don’t… I really can’t risk…” 

“I understand,” said Wilde, nodding. “Dangerous world out there.” 

“Quite,” said Aziraphale. There were Heavenly edicts in place. And it seemed like Gabriel in particular had rather gotten the… wrong idea, from the whole Sodom and Gomorrah business. 

“It was a pleasure talking to you, anyways, Mister Fell,” said Wilde. “You really are quite the dancer.” 

“Mister Wilde?” Aziraphale said quickly, before he could walk away. 

Wilde paused, arching his eyebrow once more. 

Aziraphale liked him, almost despite himself. He wanted to help, if he could. 

“I do believe that there’s a young man over there who’s been watching you all evening,” Aziraphale said, gesturing subtly towards the far end of the room. It was true– he could practically feel the poor boy’s want from here. “A Lord Alfred Douglas. I’m quite certain he wouldn’t mind if you were to… ah… introduce yourself.” 

“Is he quite as nervous as you are?” asked Wilde, grinning mischeviously. 

Oh, Aziraphale _liked_ him. “I don’t believe there’s a man on Earth as nervous as I am.” 

Wilde laughed at that. “You’re a fascinating man, Mister Fell.” 

“Again, I’m not entirely sure how I’m meant to receive that.” 

“Compliments only,” said Wilde. “Only and always. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I might just go… introduce myself, as you put it. And whatever happens next, I’m blaming you.” 

“I accept it wholeheartedly,” said Aziraphale, smiling. “Mind how you go, Mister Wilde.” 

Wilde grinned once more, then slipped off, into the crowd, vanishing amongst the sea of people. 

Aziraphale danced his one last dance, then went home. Two days later, he found a book sitting on his doorstep, with a note scrawled in the front cover– _This is entirely your fault. Here’s your punishment. Regards, Oscar and Alfred._

The book was a draft of a novel, titled _The Picture of Dorian Grey_. 

Aziraphale smiled, brought the book inside, and read the whole thing in one night. 

Five years later, Aziraphale stood outside a courthouse, watching as Oscar Wilde was escorted away in chains. 

He blinked, hard, fighting back the tears misting his eyes. Not just because he was an angel, and angels didn’t cry– because the courtroom was filled with officers, watching the spectators like hawks. Searching for their next arrest. 

And Crowley wasn’t here this time to save Aziraphale, if he got himself locked up. 

He watched until he couldn’t see Oscar’s cart anymore, then watched some more anyways, until the first drops of rain began to fall. Then he sighed, bit back his tears again, and made his way home, not bothering to miracle himself an umbrella. He doubted he’d been inclined to wear such a dark-coloured coat as this ever again, anyways. It didn’t matter if it got stained with the rain. 

Two years of labour. It would destroy poor Oscar, of that Aziraphale was certain. He’d be lucky to survive it. 

When Aziraphale got home, he found Gabriel waiting for him within the bookshop, his nose wrinkled. 

“This place smells foul, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said the second the door was shut. “It reeks of evil in here.” 

“That’s likely the fault of some of the books,” Aziraphale said. And it was true. It’s not like there had been anything else evil in his shop for nearly forty years. 

“Ugh,” Gabriel said, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know why you keep those types of things.” 

“Keeping up appearances,” said Aziraphale. “The customers have certain expectations.” 

“Right,” said Gabriel. “So. We’ve got an assignment for you.” 

Aziraphale listened as best he could, and responded in what he hoped was an appropriate manner, and didn’t bother to miracle his face or hair dry– the water helped to hide the tears he hadn’t been able to hold back. 

Finally, after Gabriel left, Aziraphale made his way to the back room, conjuring up a cup of tea and settling down into his armchair. 

He’d introduced them, all that time ago. Oscar and Alfred. And since then they’d stayed in touch, occasionally dropping by to trade drafts of writing or new editions for exciting trinkets Aziraphale had found, rare books of poetry or prophecy or philosophy that they’d always return a week or two later in perfect condition. They were charming together, and Oscar quite doted on Alfred. 

Oscar’s last gift was sitting on the table, a copy of _The Importance Of Being Earnest_ that had been annotated by Alfred. And as always, they’d written a note in the cover. A thanks, for a happy seven years, all due to the “ _ever-caring Mister Fell, without whom we most certainly would not have met_.” 

Aziraphale vanished his tea, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone give Aziraphale a hug


	2. October 1980

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley’s turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, apologies if my Googling of real events led me astray. I’m doing my best, and also it’s 3 am and there’s a limit to how much I care

Crowley was on assignment, stuck at a party. A fucking rock-and-roll party. Crowley didn’t particularly like rock and roll, but this was the kind of assignment he didn’t want to force Aziraphale to bear. He’d hardly seen Aziraphale in thirteen years, since the passing of a thermos full of holy water in a neon-lit car in Soho. 

Since he’d been told he went too fast. 

“No chance to go too bloody fast if I never fucking see him,” Crowley mumbled, tossing back a shot and grimacing at the taste it left in his mouth. 

“You’re not a regular here,” said a voice over his shoulder. 

Crowley looked up to see a man– he was oddly familiar, with short-cropped black hair and a dark mustache reminiscent of the one Crowley had shaved a few years back. 

“You are, then,” Crowley surmised. 

“Been working up the nerve to leave for a while,” the man said, sliding onto the barstool beside Crowley and holding out his hand. “Freddie.” 

“Anthony,” said Crowley, shaking it. He wasn’t sure why. Freddie wasn’t his assignment. But maybe he needed the distraction. “Want something to drink?” 

“Please,” said Freddie. 

Later that night, about a half a bottle of vodka later, Freddie managed to needle Crowley into giving him a ride home. And on the way, he’d begun to sing. His voice was beautiful, honestly, and while drunk it had a sort of ache to it that pulled at Crowley’s heart. 

Seemed to pull at the Bentley’s, too, if she had such a thing– Crowley felt her thrumming far more than was strictly necessary beneath him, almost in time with Freddie’s voice. 

They went to a hotel– Freddie hadn’t wanted to give Crowley his address, and Crowley wasn’t about to let a human into his flat. It had been decided without talking about it. 

Afterwards, Crowley stayed. 

He wasn’t sure why; he never stayed with the humans, after. But for some reason, he _liked_ Freddie. Almost despite himself. Freddie Mercury, he’d said his full name was. Lead singer of a band called Queen. 

Freddie had liked that Crowley hadn’t known about Queen. 

“Not many left who don’t,” he’d said, a wry grin on his lips. 

“Not a fan of the fame?” 

“I love performing, and I need an audience for that, darling, but the interviews are simply dreadful,” Freddie said, and Crowley laughed. 

They lay together afterwards, Freddie half-asleep and half-on top of Crowley. He needed it, Crowley could tell. Needed to be held. It was a temptation of sorts, Crowley reasoned, tempting another man to sloth. Maybe even lust again, if he felt up to it later. 

He _liked_ Freddie, almost despite himself. Wasn’t often that he liked a human, especially after only knowing them for one night. 

“You’re an interesting man, Anthony,” Freddie said suddenly, picking his head up. 

“Am I?” Crowley asked, checking to make sure that the miracle he was using to hide his eyes was still in effect. “How so?” 

“You’re a lot like me, I think,” said Freddie. 

Crowley laughed. “That’s not a compliment. To yourself, I mean. You don’t want to be like me.” _Last thing you’d ever want to be._

“I don’t know if I meant it to be,” said Freddie. 

“Really?” Crowley smirked. “Maybe I should be insulted, then.” 

”You’re welcome to, if you want,” said Freddie. 

”I think I want to hear your reasoning, first.” 

“You were talking about someone, when I came up to you.” Freddie’s voice was slow. Careful. “You said something about... going too fast.” 

Crowley sighed, closing his eyes. “Yeah. There’s… someone. It’s complicated.” 

“Well,” said Freddie, “I’ve got some experience with that. Complicated, I mean.” 

“Do tell,” said Crowley, glancing down at Freddie with a smile. He wasn’t sure why he cared, but he… 

He wanted to help. 

Freddie sighed. “I don’t talk much about my private life.” 

“I understand,” said Crowley. “And you only just met me.” 

“I like you,” Freddie said, smiling. An answer in itself. Crowley knew he’d made the right choice, not to pry. 

“Funnily enough, I think I like you, too,” said Crowley. “Don’t let it go to your head.” 

Freddie laughed again, then sighed. “Last man I said that to left right afterwards. Told me to find him when I liked myself.” 

Crowley winced in sympathy. “Rough, that.” 

“Is that what yours did to you?” 

“Not so much,” said Crowley. “He said I went too fast for him. Think I might have, too, which is the worst part.” 

“It’s always worse when they’re right,” said Freddie, lying his head back down. 

Crowley sighed once more. 

Freddie left the next morning. 

As he made his way for the door, Crowley cleared his throat loudly. 

Freddie turned, one eyebrow raised. 

“Be careful,” said Crowley. He’d been hearing rumours from Hell– rumours of a storm coming, rumours of countermeasures to be taken. Preparations to be made, for a flood of arrivals. 

Those sorts of storms never meant anything good, especially not for Freddie’s type. 

“Careful isn’t something I’m overly familiar with, darling,” Freddie replied. 

And then he was gone, and Crowley winced, letting the illusion over his eyes drop. “Figured as much.” 

Freddie died eleven years later. 

Crowley wasn’t invited to the funeral, not that he’d expected to be. He’d hardly known the man. 

But afterwards, he stood at the outer wall of his former estate, a light mist in the air that threatened to turn into proper rain any minute, but for the moment was happy to settle in Crowley’s hair and on his glasses and soak through his shirt more slowly and far more devastatingly. 

He stood there, hands shoved into his pockets, face blank and heart heavy. 

Footsteps sounded on the damp pavement, coming to stand beside him. Aziraphale. He’d know that aura anywhere. 

“Did you know him?” Aziraphale asked, his voice quiet and gentle. 

“Not really,” said Crowley. “Met him once. Liked his music.” 

He cast a glance over his shoulder at the Bentley. He’d been right about her affinity for Freddie’s singing. 

“I heard he was very good,” said Aziraphale. 

“Thought rock wasn’t your style.” 

“I can still recognize talent.” 

Crowley sighed, a drop of condensation streaking down the right lense of his glasses. 

“I… I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, his voice quiet. 

Crowley didn’t respond. 

They stood there, silent, for a long, long moment. 

Then Crowley asked, “Did your lot have anything to do with all this?” 

Aziraphale shook his head. 

“Figures,” said Crowley with a snort. “Seems like the kind of thing they’d love. Dissuading lust. Driving the wrong kind of love back into hiding. Just like Sodom and Gomorrah, all over again.” 

“That was never about this. You know that as well as I do,” said Aziraphale quietly. 

“Does Heaven, though?” asked Crowley. “What with the bloody Church getting all up in arms about it.” He sighed. “He’s ours now. Freddie, I mean. Seems odd. All of them end up ours, don’t they?” 

“Not all of them,” said Aziraphale. 

“No, no, ‘course not,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “Just the ones who do anything. Who aren’t perfectly good. Perfectly chaste, following all the little rules, never setting a damn toe out of line.” 

“It’s not like that,” Aziraphale breathed. 

“Do you really believe that?” Crowley asked, and there was condensation on his face now, or maybe it was tears. He supposed it didn’t matter. “Do you actually think that, or is it just what you _want_ to believe?” 

There was another moment of silence, and that was answer enough. 

“Do you know how many have died?” Crowley breathed, quiet enough that Aziraphale almost didn’t hear him. 

“Of this?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley nodded, answering his own question. He knew it well, too well, and he suspected Aziraphale did, too. “Tens of thousands, angel. There’s more every day. And things were getting better for them, too. They were starting to come out of hiding. Some of them were _happy_. And then…” 

He squeezed his eyes shut, holding himself unnaturally still, unnaturally straight, trying to force away the rage, the sorrow. 

Aziraphale said nothing for a long moment. 

Then he sighed. “Come back to the bookshop, dear. We’ll have a drink.” 

“I won’t be good company tonight,” Crowley warned. “Likely to punch your walls, or break down on your sofa.” 

“I know,” said Aziraphale. “And you’re likely to do those things wherever you end up going tonight. I’d rather you do them where I know you won’t hurt anyone else.” _Where I know you’ll be safe_. He didn’t say it out loud. 

He didn’t need to. 

Crowley lead them over to the Bentley, started her up with a touch of his fingers. 

The radio sprang to life, too, though it was quiet. Playing Queen, as always. 

As they drove, the song filled the silence. 

_The show must go on._


	3. June 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy ending, of sorts

Aziraphale shook Crowley awake, as gently as he could. 

“Hngmph _sleeping_ , angel,” Crowley grumbled, rolling away determinedly. 

“Dearest, the parade is today,” Aziraphale said. “That Pride parade that you wanted to go to so badly.” 

Crowley sat bolt-upright at that, eyes fixing on Aziraphale. “Shit. You’re right. What time is it?” 

“Ten-thirty,” said Aziraphale soothingly. “You’ve still got an hour and a half, love, and you don’t need to get ready.” 

“What do you mean, don’t need to get ready?” Crowley asked, his brow furrowing. “I’ve gotta do my makeup, do my _hair_ , we need to make our signs, I’m positive the stores will be out of those water bottles you wanted to bring–“ 

“I bought the bottles last night,” Aziraphale said. “And you can just miracle yourself ready, can’t you?” 

“S’not as fun that way,” Crowley grumbled. 

Aziraphale smiled, then leaned forwards, kissing his husband gently. 

Crowley deepened the kiss, a hand sliding up to cup the back of Aziraphale’s head, the other grabbing onto his waist, pulling him up onto the bed, pressing their bodies together. They toppled slowly to the pillows, still intertwined, still kissing, both of them rather unwilling to break apart. 

Crowley ended up miracling himself ready. 

They strode through the crowd, hands intertwined. Aziraphale was carting along a cooler full of water bottles, and both of their cheeks were painted with rainbows. Crowley’s bare arms were covered in them, too, as was his midriff, and the soles of the heels he wore. Everything else– the shorts, the crop top, the fishnets, the rest of the heels– was black. It was Pride, but Crowley did still have a reputation to maintain. 

“You know, it is rather odd,” Aziraphale said, beaming around at the crowd. Crowley thought he’d never seen him so happy. 

Well. Not never. During their date at the Ritz, just after their executions, the one Aziraphale insisted was their first date as a proper couple (Crowley had disagreed, their first date was _obviously_ those fucking oysters in Rome, c’mon angel), Aziraphale had looked like this. Happier, even. Like he was literally glowing. 

At one point, just for a moment, before he got it under control, he had been. 

“What’s odd?” Crowley asked indulgently, tugging his angel closer. 

”That we both keep gravitating towards this community over the years,” Aziraphale said. 

”I think the community gravitates to you, angel,” said Crowley. “Soho was a perfectly respectable part of London before you got there.” 

”That is as much your influence as mine, and you know it,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes, still smiling. 

Crowley shrugged. The sex shops might have been, now he thought about it. Six thousand years of unresolved demonic lust has side effects. 

“The point is, concepts like sexuality and gender hardly apply to us,” said Aziraphale. “We’re far older than any of those things.” 

“Sexuality doesn’t apply to us?” Crowley asked, smirking. “Then what the fuck were we doing all morning?” 

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale said, nudging gently up against Crowley. “You know perfectly well what I mean.” 

“I think that makes it make more sense, in a way,” said Crowley, shrugging. “The labels human societies made up just don’t fit right for us. Just like with the others here. Labels don’t fit.” 

“Neither of us have ever been very good with labels, have we?” asked Aziraphale. “Not even with the whole angel-demon thing, and that’s supposed to be quite impossible to change.” He grinned, almost cheekily. “I think, my dearest, that makes us rather in–“ 

“Don’t say it,” Crowley threatened. “Don’t you dare, angel. I’ll leave.” 

Aziraphale’s grin widened. 

Crowley opted to ignore it. “I like _some_ labels.” 

“Really?” Aziraphale asked, pulling Crowley to a stop to hand a bottle of water to a scantily-dressed young couple sat on the curb before smiling up at him. “What sorts of labels do you like?” 

Crowley frowned, tapping a finger against his lips. “Hm. Let’s see. Husband, for one. Wife. Spouse. Lover. Beloved. Partner.” He pulled Aziraphale closer. “Yours.” 

Aziraphale laughed at that, rising up on his toes to kiss Crowley ever so briefly– he was lovely in those heels, they did wonders for his legs, but it did make him rather harder to reach. 

When he pulled away, Aziraphale fought to keep from glancing skyward, from looking around to make sure they hadn’t been seen. 

Crowley noticed it, and his grip on Aziraphale’s hand tightened ever so slightly. “I love you, angel. And I don’t think Pride is really Heaven’s scene.” 

“No, I don’t suppose it is,” Aziraphale said, smiling gently and squeezing Crowley’s hand back. “And I love you, too, my dearest. Always. It’s just… odd, frankly. Still. Being able to be so… open, about this. About us.” 

“It is odd,” Crowley agreed. “Not having to hide. Six thousand years of habit is hard to break.” 

“Best keep practicing, then, my love,” Aziraphale said, rising to press another kiss to his husband’s lips. “I love you.” 

Things were getting better. For them, for the humans, for the world. Things were far from perfect. Every little thing seemed to threaten their cautious progress. 

But the community was fighting, fighting forwards, and strides– however small, however tentative– were being made. 

Things were getting better. 

And for the first time in more than a thousand years, in the community they’d come to think of as their own, all that Aziraphale and Crowley could feel was hope. 

Hope and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!! Feedback is super duper appreciated, I love hearing your thoughts!


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